On the first hour of the fifth day of the eleventh month, the bus pulled up alongside the quiet stretch of road I was on. The driver was a bespectacled elder, the skin of his face dragged down due to age. He smiled toothily at me as I boarded, his wrinkly fingers counting out the loose change I offered to him as bus fare. For this bus, in particular, seamless technology-chipped cards were not accepted. The only payment for entrance was in cash, and only those informed enough of these circumstances were allowed onboard.

 

Word about the bus must've spread because the boarding passengers filled the bus seats quickly. I was lucky enough to grab my seat next to a schoolgirl. She turned to face away from me as I sat, crossing her arms to indicate her closed-off attitude and reluctance to engage in conversation. I, however, had been determined otherwise.

 

"Hello," I greeted her as the bus began to continue its journey. "How are you?"

 

She shifted even further away from me. Her twin braids, which were woven tightly against the sides of her head were almost touching the windows on the bus. From my angle, I could not see her face.

 

"I've had a day," I tried again, "My clients aren't the easiest people."

 

A sob cries out from the back of the bus. I turn my head to see a middle-aged man clutching the arms of an elderly woman. The expression on his face was wrinkled in distraught. I notice a few other passengers' glancing towards the commotion, but otherwise easily return to the previous countenance. The man cries out again, and I force myself to look away. When I turned my head back towards the schoolgirl, I realised she was now looking at me.

 

"What happened?"

 

Her voice was soft. Her accent was lifted like mine. She spoke slowly, as though she was uncertain I would be able to hear her. Her eyes, brown, also like mine, now looked at me with slight anticipation. She was waiting for my response.

 

"Nothing. Just a man crying. He must've had a long day too."

 

"No," she looks down at her lap shyly, "What happened at work?"

 

I smiled at her attempt to start a conversation. Initially, I was warned to expect little to no communication. However, her question indicated her interest, and I was eager to latch on to it.

 

"A family requested for more flowers. I couldn't find the specific type they wanted so I offered an alternative. They were upset, understandably."

 

"Oh." She replies, "That's unfortunate."

 

"It's alright actually. I eventually found them their white Madonna lilies. They weren't cheap but they were willing to pay extra for them. So, all good."

 

"That's nice," She looks at me again. This time her gaze is friendlier. I noticed she had shifted her body towards me too, "I like white lilies."

 

"Yeah," I nod. A chill settles across my bones and I hold back the urge to shiver, "I know you do."

 

The corner of her mouth raises upwards. She hums pleasantly as she turns her head to face back towards the window. I follow her gaze and notice that the bus has now passed a familiar skyline, the entrance to the city. We sat in silence momentarily as I provided her with the space and time to take in the surroundings. There had been no rush to continue our conversation, the bus would not be stopping anytime soon.

 

Around me, other patrons of the bus were similarly engaged in conversation. Some were loud, their enthusiastic voices chattering eagerly as they shared stories. Some seemed timid, uncertain, and perhaps even uncomfortable. I looked towards the middle-aged man again. This time he had his arms around the elderly woman. I could see her lips moving as she spoke, although her voice wasn't strong enough for me to catch their conversation from where I was. Nevertheless, the pleased look on both their faces was enough to indicate the relaxed nature of their engagement.

 

As the bus started to turn into a road inhabited by small, distinct shophouses, I pointed towards a coffee shop, "Do you remember this place?"

 

She startles slightly given my interruption of her musings, "No."

 

"Your parents... they said it was your favourite."

 

"I-," she hesitates. Her gaze sweeps over me briefly before she drops it. I notice her slight fidgeting, her grip increasing on the wallet on her lap, "I don't remember much here."

 

"That's okay. I mostly just want to know how you are doing. Your parents miss you deeply."

 

She is silent again for a moment and my heart drops thinking I've gone too far. Then she says, "You can tell them I am fine," Then she says again, "Could you tell them where to find me?"

 

I pause.

 

"Y-yeah." My voice comes out strained and choked off, "I'll tell them."

 

She grins. Her left incisor is crooked.

 

"It is nice here," she tells me reassuringly, "Memories come and go but I think I am always happy."

 

I move to touch her hands. She lets me, and the wallet she has been fiddling with moves from her lap and into my hands. I open it, revealing a family picture nestled within. She's the same age in the picture. Her hair is still in braids. I recognise it immediately. It was taken by my brother's brand-new Polaroid camera. He'd insisted every family take one. The one we took with her was in our living room, and she'd just returned from school. I caress the frayed edges of the picture. I sense her looking down at it too. 

 

"That's me." She whispers, "That's you?"

 

I look at her again. This time, I am struck by how familiar her features are. Years have gone by, and I no longer look like the woman I was in the picture. Yet, her face, young and frozen in time, looks the same as the day she left us. I'd almost forgotten. Tears slip down my cheeks. I didn't try to fight it; I knew what to expect when I boarded the bus. This was what I'd hoped for even.

 

"That's you," she repeats softly, "You were my mother."

 

The bus turns into a highway out of the city. The other passengers, sensing the end of the ride approaching, start to rush their conversation. I feel the urge to do the same.

"I am. I still am," my hands now grip hers tightly, "I don't think I could ever stop being a mother. Your father still plants white lilies by your bedroom window. Every day we miss you. I am so happy to see you here."

 

She is crying now. I reach to wipe her tears away.

 

"Mum-"

 

"You are fine." I can barely speak through my tears at this point, "That is more than I could ever have hoped for."

 

I pull her into a hug. She rests her cheek against my shoulder and for a moment I relive what it felt like when she was alive. She has always been small beneath my arms. Her braids tickle my neck. She has no breath, that was to be expected, and I am reminded that I'd have to let go.

 

The bus bell rings. The end stop is approaching.

 

She holds me until the bus comes to a stop. Slowly, passengers began to filter out through the exit doors. The middle-aged man I saw leaves a kiss on the elderly woman's head. His face is blotchy with tears. The woman rubs his arm in consolation. I kiss my daughter too. She holds me tighter. As the second last passenger is about to leave, I get up too. She looks at me for the last time, her wallet in her hands, our family picture in her lap.

 

"Goodbye, Mum."

 

I get off the bus.

 

The next night, I rejoin the crowd, gathering under the moonlit sky, underneath the overgrown Poplar tree. We wait hopefully. There is no knowing when the bus will arrive, or if it ever will again. Yet, the countless nights spent wishing and thinking, and knowing I'd have an opportunity to see her again if it does, keep me waiting for a long time.